


Even when we're close to broken

by Builder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Unhealthy Relationships, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 17:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16665181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Sirius scrubs his hand on the leg of his jeans before reaching for the paper.  He still leaves damp fingerprints on it as he unfurls it and tries to decipher the words."Sirius--I hope you’re being cautious.  I don’t like the rumors I’m hearing, and know I don’t need to remind you of the delicacy of the situation."There’s no signature.  He doesn’t need one. The handwriting is enough, and even without the tell, Sirius still would’ve read the note in Remus’s voice.Sirius sighs.  The owl fidgets on the edge of the sink, preparing to take off again.“Wait,” Sirius says, a little louder than he means to.  The word echoes and ignites a fresh wave of throbbing vertigo.  “Hold on.”He digs in his pocket for a nub of pencil, then holds the note against the toilet seat as he scribbles his reply."Then fucking come home."





	Even when we're close to broken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mohini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/gifts).



> This is a canon divergence/AU in which Sirius didn't die in OOTP, Dumbledore didn't die in HBP, Remus and Tonks didn't die in DH, and the drama in the wizarding world slowly resolved itself. This story is very much about relationships and not so much about Voldemort.
> 
> Assume past Remus/Sirius.

Sirius’s eyelids droop as he pulls the car around the circle, edging the tires toward the curb in front of the spot where number twelve, Grimauld Place ought to be.  He’s determined not to be asleep at the wheel, but with the heavy alcoholic drowsiness pounding behind his forehead and the light of the cold sunset reducing his eyes to a squint, it’s a wonder he can see between his lashes at all.  

 

He does see the scraggly child dashing into the street after a loose basketball, though.  He slams on the brakes and lays on the horn, which makes both him and the unfortunate tyke jump.  The boy hits the street on his bottom, the ball clutched against his chest, and begins to howl. So does Sirius, but his sounds a lot less like  _ mummy _ and more like  _ fuck _ .

 

After a moment, an equally bedraggled woman--or girl, more like--pops out of number eleven, shoeless and yanking the hem of her skirt toward her knees.  Sirius wonders what the hell she was doing, then if she’s mother or sister to the kid, before his drunk mind finally shudders to a halt on the fact that there might be a problem.

 

The young woman grabs the child’s hand and roughly pulls him to his feet.  She gives Sirius a dirty look as she snatches the ball away.

 

Sirius lifts his fingers from the top of the steering wheel and ducks his head.  “He’s fine,” he calls, hoping she can hear him through the windshield. “I think we just gave each other a fright.”

 

The woman tucks the ball under her arm and raises her middle finger at Sirius, then marches the boy up the drive and into the house.

 

“Yeah, same to you,” Sirus mutters.  His sore head shouldn’t be swimming in guilt, too.  He didn’t do anything wrong. But as he makes to fix his crooked parking job, he knows that isn’t quite true.  

 

He watches his feet as he walks up to the row of houses.  He can’t bear to watch number twelve pop into existence, he’s already feeling sick enough as is.  The doormat appears by the time his shoes make it up the cobblestone walk. Sirius lets himself in, grateful for the fact that it’s not necessary to lock the door of a disappearing house.  He’s too shaky to want to do much with his keys.

 

Once he’s inside, Sirius’s guard vanishes along with his strength, and apparently the bones in his legs.  He trips into the drawing room and collapses face-first onto the sofa. The musty smell of the cushions don’t do much for his churning stomach, but he doesn’t think he’d be doing any better without them.  

 

He drowses for a few minutes, neither exactly asleep nor awake, until the pain in his head ticks up to unbearable.  Sirius turns his head to the side, intending to breathe, but his body makes the executive decision to vomit instead.  It’s copious and runny and absolutely everywhere, but instinct still drives Sirius to clamp his hand over his mouth and tear for the bathroom.  He knocks over something in the hall--a hat rack or umbrella stand, he can’t tell from the indistinct echoing clatter, and his blurry vision isn’t much more helpful-- and leaves a second deposit of sick at the scene of the crime.  Finally he slams his knees into the tile in front of the toilet, coughing and sputtering. Something about being reduced to a shivering mess on the bathroom floor makes him feel absolutely filthy. As if he wasn’t already covered in the kind of greasy sweat one can only collect in pubs.  And he hadn’t even had the fish and chips.

 

It’s a small mercy, he supposes.  It’s easier to belch up liquids, and he’d probably be put off cod and potatoes in every form for the rest of his life.  Even the thought is disgusting. Sirius heaves again, and the taste of beer gives way to the bitterness of bile. He hacks, sending aerosolized spittle all over his arm and the toilet seat, but he doesn’t care.  He doesn’t want to move. He only wishes he wasn't alone.

 

Sirius is still in the bathroom when the own swoops in.  There must be an open window upstairs somewhere, but he doesn’t have the attention span to linger on the specifics.  “What?” Sirius groans, struggling to focus on the owl’s large, orange eyes.

 

The owl holds out its leg, offering a tattered scroll of parchment.  

 

Sirius scrubs his hand on the leg of his jeans before reaching for the paper.  He still leaves damp fingerprints on it as he unfurls it and tries to decipher the words.

 

_ Sirius-- _

_ I hope you’re being cautious.  I don’t like the rumors I’m hearing, and know I don’t need to remind you of the delicacy of the situation. _

 

There’s no signature.  He doesn’t need one. The handwriting is enough, and even without the tell, Sirius still would’ve read the note in Remus’s voice.  

 

Sirius sighs.  The owl fidgets on the edge of the sink, preparing to take off again.  

 

“Wait,” Sirius says, a little louder than he means to.  The word echoes and ignites a fresh wave of throbbing vertigo.  “Hold on.” 

 

He digs in his pocket for a nub of pencil, then holds the note against the toilet seat as he scribbles his reply.

 

_ Then fucking come home. _

 

But Remus doesn’t.  He sends Tonks. Sirius finds her rooting around in the kitchen when he gains the wherewithal to wash up and change his clothes and try to clean up some of the mess from earlier.

 

The hall smells strongly of cleaner, and there’s a bucket and mop abandoned beside the umbrella stand, as it turned out to be.  

 

“You left your bucket,” Sirius sees fit to point out as he throws himself into a chair at the kitchen table.  

 

“It’s your bucket, actually,” Tonks shoots back, removing her head from the cabinet and turning to face him.  “You alright? After that trail you left?”

 

“Fine,” Sirius grumbles.  “Just, too much.” He tries to determine if he’s feeling more exhausted or dramatic.  He decides on dramatic. “Just drowning my sorrows. You know.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Tonks echoes.

 

Sirius watches her nod.  “No, you don’t.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right.  I don’t.” She pulls down a box of crackers and turns it over.  “Do I even want to know the expiry date on these?”

 

Sirius shrugs.

 

“I swear.  Now that the Order’s moved out, this is turning into a right bachelor pad.”

 

“Hmph.”  Sirius crosses his arms.  “It’s not supposed to be.”

 

Tonks refuses to let him leave the table without eating and drinking something, so they’re still there when the sun comes up, hands wrapped mugs of cold tea and a plate of untouched saltines between them.  

 

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” Tonks says.  “And I know you don’t either.”

 

Sirius considers a retort, but the front door opens and interrupts his train of thought.  He smiles instinctively, then he remembers the situation. 

 

Tonks catches the change in expression before Sirius can correct it.  “Lucky you,” she says with a look that’s part sarcasm and part sympathy.  Then, “Morning, Remus.”

 

“Morning.”  Remus removes his cloak and drapes it over the back of a chair.  Unlike the other two, he’s wearing robes instead of muggle clothes.  Proof that unlike them, he still has important things to do. “How are we?”

 

“Oh, you know.”  Tonks shrugs and helps herself to a cracker.  

 

“Feeling better?”  Remus asks Sirius.

 

“Yes, but--how did--?  Did she--?” Sirius wishes he didn’t sound so breathy and desperate. 

 

“I didn’t do anything.”  Tonks holds up her hands and absolves herself, mouth full of saltine.

 

“No, we may have aged, but the rest of the numbers haven’t changed.”  Remus gives Sirius a sad smile. “You were at the pub three hours, give or take?  Eight drinks? Assuming pints are still five quid.”

 

“What, you’re stealing my receipts?”  Sirius’s head still hurts too much to argue, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

 

“I’m not,” Remus says.  “What Mundungus does is up to him.”

 

“Shit.”  Sirius presses his fingertips into the corners of his eyes.  He should’ve known. Why else would Remus have sent the owl? But he’s not firing on all cylinders, not by a long shot.  It’s better to look it that way. That seems much more correctable than a deep-seeded lack of trust. 

 

But now it’s on his mind, though.  The fight rising in Sirius is as hard to push down as the vomit.  And it burns a little more. “So you set Dung after me. Fuck.” He lowers his hands and glares at Remus.  “I’m under surveillance. Like the actual criminals you’re following?”

 

“I…”  Remus swallows.  “Sirius.” He takes a seat at the table.  

 

Tonks jumps up, mumbling about making a fresh pot of tea.

 

“Thanks, Dora.  That’d be lovely,” Remus says.  

 

“And she’s  _ Dora _ now?”  Sirius shakes his head.  “What is the world coming to?”

 

“The world is getting better.”  Remus leans forward with his elbows on the table.  “It’s getting safer. That’s why we have a car now.  That’s why we can come and go.”

 

“Isn’t that what I was doing?”  Sirius asks defensively.

 

“No, it wasn’t, and you know it,” Remus sighs.  “Albus Dumbledore sat right there, in that chair.”  He points to the seat Tonks recently vacated. “And he told you to be careful.  He charmed the neighbors into not asking questions, but the rest was on you.”

 

“But--” Sirius starts.

 

“I know what he said, because I was there, Sirius.  Do you remember that? Or were you drunk then, too?”

 

“That’s...that’s too far.”  Sirius grips his mug, his hands shaking with combined illness and rage.  Tonks sets a fresh cup in front of Remus, then begins making one for herself.

 

“It’s a problem, Sirius.  You have to admit it first before we can fix it,” Remus says.

 

“I can do what I please,” Sirius shoots back.  “I’m not a wanted man anymore. Stop treating me like I am.”

 

“Just because the ministry doesn’t have a price on your head anymore doesn’t mean we can totally dispense with caution.  _  I  _ have to move carefully.  Everyone does,” Remus attempts to reason.  “It would be different if you were going out to do the shopping, but--”

 

“Who says that’s not what I was doing?” Sirius interrupts, all evidence to the contrary aside.

 

“I do,” Tonks says, disassembling an empty box of tea bags.  “You’re out of practically everything.”

 

“I wasn’t asking you,” Sirius mutters.

 

“Yeah, well, I spent the night mopping up after you,” Tonks says, eyebrows raised.  

 

It shames Sirius back into silence.  He sits back in his chair. His stomach’s in knots again, and he folds his arms over it, cross and miserable.

 

“I’m not saying you have to stay in the house,” Remus says, his voice gentle again.  “I’m just saying.” He pauses to sip his tea. “That it’s not just your life. When you start looking for comfort in the bottom of a bottle, you’re not the only one affected.”

 

Remus goes on and says something else, but Sirius doesn’t hear him.  It’s what Remus does, speaking about himself without saying so outright, so looks humble.  So he doesn’t look needy. Sirius is used to reading between the lines, but today the words make a terrible sort of sense without the added interpretation. 

 

What if Remus came home to find him illuminated in the car’s headlights, bent over a child’s lifeless body?  Or worse, what if he didn’t come home at all? What if the muggle police came to put Sirius in handcuffs and no one was any the wiser?  Even Mundungus doesn’t have feelers in that sort of criminal world.

 

“Hey, are you even listening?”  Tonks slaps the table in front of Sirius as she resumes her seat.  

 

Sirius jumps, mentally replaying the events from yesterday again, and he spills tea all over the table.  “Sorry,” he says quickly, standing up and tripping toward the pantry for a towel. 

 

“No, you sit.  I’ll clear it up.”  Tonks grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him down again.  “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just…” She shakes her head.

 

“Sorry,” Sirius mutters again, putting his elbows in the spreading pool of tea and cradling his head.  

 

“I know,” Remus sighs.  “I know. That’s why I’m telling you.  You can’t keep this up.” He lets out a long breath.  “I can’t keep this up.”

 

Sirius looks at him, taking in the tired face, the droplets of tea clinging to the stubble on his upper lip.  He wants to throw accusations right back, to ask where the bloody hell Remus has been lately, because no one can be gone on business quite this much.  Dumbledore would never stand for it. He wants to laugh and ask how many nights Remus has left him cold and alone to bunk in with someone else, someone younger and softer and better at clearing up.

 

But the thought makes him feel ill all over again.  So instead Sirius whispers, “What would you have me do differently?”

 

Remus swirls his tea.  He doesn’t meet Sirius’s eye when he says, “I’m not sure.”


End file.
